Contemporary Terry Smith

Critical Inquiry 32 (Summer 2006)

� 2006 by The University of Chicago. 0093-1896/06/3204-0011$10.00. All rights reserved.

681

I wish to thank W. J. T. Mitchell, Okwui Enwezor, and Nancy Condee for their acute commentsand Miguel Rojas for assistance with the illustrations.

Contemporary Art and Contemporaneity

Terry Smith

A park in Istanbul during the autumn months of 2001: out from the

manicured grass protrudes the corner section of a new, white-walled build-

ing. Or is it sinking (fig. 1)? High modernist styling like that can only mean

one thing: art gallery. But for what kind of art, and why is it here? Walk

around it and the words Temporary Art appear above the blocked, nearly

inaccessible door. Of course: a gallery or museum of contemporary art. Yet

its duck-rabbit directionality is a puzzle. Are we meant to construe it as the

victim of some unfelt earthquake, historical tragedy, or human neglect? Or

perhaps is it emerging from underground, an architectural chrysalis taking,

triumphantly, its rightful shape?

The answer is left deliberately ambiguous. The creators of this piece of

public art, Michael Elmgreen and Ingar Dragset, made it for the Seventh

Istanbul Biennale; the park is a part of the exhibition grounds. So it is, first

of all, what the words on it lightheartedly say it is: a temporary work of art.

In other projects by these artists, architectural forms and functions are al-

tered in subtle and amusing ways. In one case, they installed a diving board

so that it pointed out the window of an upper story in a modernist high

rise. For a work entitled SPECTACULAR 2003 the Kunst Palast inDusseldorf

underwent the transformation of having its entire collection dismantled,

packed into trucks that were driven once around the building, then rein-

stalled exactly as before. In the same year Elmgreen and Dragset installed a

white truck with a caravan as if it had shot through from the other side of

the planet and erupted, jackknifed, at the main crossing of the Galleria,

682 Terry Smith / Contemporary Art and Contemporaneity

f i g u r e 1. Michael Elmgreen and Ingar Dragset, Powerless Structures—Traces of a Never

Existing History, Figure 222. Mixed media, 2001 (at Istanbul Biennale). Courtesy Galleri Nicolai

Wallner, Copenhagen.

Milan, entitling this work Short Cut. In Istanbul, however, the artists of-

fered an instalment from their Powerless Structures series; the subsiding/

projecting museum is subtitled Traces of a Never Existing History, Figure

222, as if it were an illustration from a future archaeology of the present.

The artists are wittily proposing that contemporary art is concerned with

posing questions, usually about itself, perhaps without much hope of effect,

and destined to end in ambiguity. Contemporary art might, somehow, be

losing touch with time. Yet this work, like many of their others, is potent:

smartly styled, conceptually compact, formally pointed, easy to get, hard

to forget. Such a contradiction between surety of form and uncertainty

as to content is a hallmark of art in the first decade of the twenty-

Terr y Smith is Andrew W. Mellon Professor of Contemporary Art History

and Theory in the Henry Clay Frick Department of the History of Art and

Architecture at the University of Pittsburgh. He is currently at work on The

Architecture of Aftermath, What Is Contemporary Art? and, with Nancy Condee

and Okwui Enwezor, Antinomies of Art and Culture.

Critical Inquiry / Summer 2006 683

1. The subtlest presentation of this “de-definitional” perspective during its brief reign was Vad

ar samtida konst? / What Is Contemporary Art? ed. Peter Edstrom, Helene Mohlin, and Anna

Palmqvist (Rooseum, Malmo, Sweden, 3 June–30 July 1989). In a series of publications beginning

in 1984, Arthur Danto sought to define contemporary, as distinct from modern, art as a

posthistorical pluralism, most concisely in the introduction to his After the End of Art:

Contemporary Art and the Pale of History (Princeton, N.J., 1997). The present essay develops from

my What Is Contemporary Art? Contemporary Art, Contemporaneity, and Art to Come

(Woolloomooloo, N.S.W., 2001) and “What Is Contemporary Art? Contemporaneity and Art to

Come,” Konsthistorisk Tidskrift 71, nos. 1–2 (2002): 3–15.

first century. It prompts the question, Just what is so contemporary about

this kind of apparent contradiction, and why does it pervade art these days?

What Is Contemporary Art Now?For more than two decades no one has articulated a successful gener-

alization about contemporary art. First there have been fears of essential-

ism, followed by the sheer relief of having shaken off exclusivist theories,

imposed historicisms, and grand narratives, and then, recently, delight in

the simple-seeming pleasures of an open field. More prosaically, the answer

has seemed obvious to the point of banality. Look around you. Contem-

porary art is most—why not all?—of the art that is being made now. It

cannot be subject to generalization and has overwhelmed art history; it is

simply, totally contemporaneous. But this pluralist happymix is illusory.

The question of contemporary art has, in fact, been insistently answered

more narrowly by the acts of artists and the organizations that sustain

them—so much so that these responses are, by now, deeply embedded in

both. (Buried in each other, according to Elmgreen and Dragset.) The re-

sponses do not have singular shape; rather, they embody tendencies towards

both closure and openness. Most accounts highlight the currency of one or

another aspect of current practice: new media, digital imagery, immersive

cinema, national identifications, new internationalism, disidentification,

neomodernism, relational aesthetics, postproduction art, remix cultures.

The list keeps extending. Apologists stress the pivotal connectedness of their

favored approach to at least one significant aspect of contemporary expe-

rience, but usually deny any claims to universality, sighing with relief that

the bad old days of exclusionary dominance are over.1

Nevertheless, it seems to me that, in visual art discourse, two big answers

have come to figure forth amidst the multitude of smaller ones. This is es-

pecially evident in the major world art distribution centers. From broader

world perspectives, however, their prominence is misleading and, perhaps,

self-defeating. The multitudes may be on the cusp of having their day.

Ambitious, big-picture interpretations aim—as they always have—to be

acute descriptions of how particular (artistic) practices relate to general (so-


2. See Richard Serra Sculpture, ed. Rosalind E. Krauss (exhibition catalog, Museum of Modern

Art, New York, 27 Feb.–13 May 1986); Richard Serra, ed. Hal Foster and Gordon Hughes

(Cambridge, Mass., 2000); and Richard Serra Sculpture 1985–1998, ed. Russell Ferguson, Anthony

McCall, and Clara Weyergraf-Serra (exhibition catalog, Los Angeles, County Museum of Art, 20

Sept. 1998–3 Jan. 1999).

cial) conditions. I present them, mostly, in my own terms, for this is a po-

lemic as much as it is a description. I will offer characterizations of two great

forces, in all of their mismatched contention. I will then show them to be

polarities of a dichotomous exchange, the central regions of which are oc-

cupied by a mainstream that is, paradoxically, dispersive: the spilling di-

versity of contemporary practice.

Contemporary as the New ModernRichard Serra was a leading proponent of informal art, capturing, in

pieces as various as videos showing his hand clutching at falling lead and

his Verb List (1967–68), its commitment to artwork as a demonstration of

active process rather than the realization or termination of a preconception.

He soon developed a powerful strategy for building this kind of dynamism

into works that seem, at first, as reductive and self-contained as most min-

imal sculpture but that draw the spectator into a much more engaged re-

lationship. This energy flows from their size, their evident weight, from the

eccentricity of their angles and the precariousness of their positioning—all

qualities that are exact in relation to each observer’s mobile eyes and body.

Unlike the virtual spatialities of abstract sculpture in the constructivist

mode, but like happenings and environments, Serra’s sculptures require

one to walk close to, around, or through them, in quite specific ways. Huge

sheets of unfinished Cor-Ten steel are stacked up as the only support of each

other, in busy public spaces such as the town center of Bochum, Germany

(Terminal [1977]), or at Broadgate, outside the entrance to the LondonStock

Exchange (Fulcrum [1986–87]). Tilted Arc, a 120-foot-long partial cylinder

of raw Cor-Ten steel, over two inches thick and twelve feet high, installed

in the Federal Plaza, New York, in 1981, provoked a controversy fierce

enough to lead to its removal.2

More than any other artist’s work, and not least in its shift back through

art historical time, Serra’s has come to represent what late modern sculpture

means within the frameworks of official contemporary art. At the Guggen-

heim Museum, Bilbao, Frank Gehry shaped the famous “fish” gallery

around Serra’s Snake. When, in 2003, dia:Beacon opened in a converted

factory on the Hudson River, New York, the railroad shed and loading dock

were filled by Serra’s three gigantic Torqued Ellipses and the single steel slab

constituting his Torqued Spiral (fig. 2). In their clarity of form as read by


f i g u r e 2. Richard Serra, Double-Torqued Ellipse. Cor-Ten steel, 1997. Dia Art

Foundation. 2000. Installation view at Dia:Beacon, Hudson River, New York.

3. Quoted in Calvin Tomkins, “The Mission: How the Dia Art Foundation Survived Feuds,

Legal Crises, and Its Own Ambitions,” The New Yorker, 19 May 2003, p. 46. An earlier, yet

quintessentially modernist, version of this kind of aesthetic valuing may be found in the

“instantaneousness” that Michael Fried, in his famous 1967 essay “Art and Objecthood,” saw as

definitive of a convinced response to modernist art and counterposed to the “theatricality” of

minimalism’s address to the spectator (Michael Fried, “Art and Objecthood,” Art and Objecthood:

Essays and Reviews [Chicago, 1998], p. 167).

the moving body, and in their muscular dialogue with their surroundings,

these works have a command of space that is exceptional in its resolute

clarity. In such a context, however, older conceptions of museum display—

art’s history, schools, and movements—are banished in the wow! of the aes-

thetic encounter in its distilled form. In elevating this instantaneity towards

awestruck transcendence, the Dia:Beacon displays shift the trenchant spa-

tiality of minimalism at its best towards a peculiarly late modern version of

pure contemporaneousness. In the words of Dia founder Heiner Friedrich:

“Art has no history—there is only a continuous present. . . . The non-stop

presence of art! Velazquez, Goya, Manet are all in one line, which extends

to Matisse and Warhol. If art is alive, it is always new.”3


4. See Matthew Barney: The Cremaster Cycle, ed. Nancy Spector (exhibition catalog, Museum

Ludwig, Cologne, 6 June–7 Sept. 2002).

During the 2003 exhibit of Matthew Barney’s Cremaster cycle at the Gug-

genheim Museum, New York, the famous rotunda spiralled up and away

from sight, into a chaste light, whiter than usual. A corporate logo hovered

above the skylight; the lozenge shape seemed familiar, but what was that

brand? Cobalt blue swam up from beneath one’s feet. Pink patches, bright

banners and competing noises composed a swirling panorama. From every

side and above, particularly on the giant, five-screen Jumbotron, video

monitors flashed out images of fantastical yet clearly fashionable characters

involved in high-speed action or ritually sedate posing. Punk rock exploded

through attenuated sounds, crescendos surged out of ambient Muzak. It

was, at once, an extraordinary work of art, an art theme park, and a daring

mix of far-out art, music video, cool design, and high-tech and crossover

fashion that for an entire generation is definitive of contemporary experi-

ence. The Cremaster cycle takes the form of five feature-length 35mm films

and a growing number of videos, drawings, collages, sculptures, and in-

stallations that relate directly to the films—a mobility of medium typical of

all forms of contemporary art. Typical, too, is the esoteric portentousness

of its central idea: the cremaster is the muscle that governs the chromosome

switch from female to male and then controls testicular contraction. Am-

biguous kernel, assured shell—again. Its $8 million production costs were,

for the time, exceptional.4

The films narrate an elaborate, self-enclosed allegory. Set in Bronco Sta-

dium, Boise, Idaho, the artist’s hometown, Cremaster 1 (1995) tracks a

troupe of dancers who take the shapes of still-androgynous gonads, sym-

bolizing pure potential. Cremaster 2 (1999), set in the Canadian Rockies and

Utah, connects three themes entailing movement backwards in time: the

movement of glaciers, the stories of murderer Garry Gilmore and of escap-

ologist Harry Houdini, and the lives of drone bees. Cremaster 3 (2002) con-

nects the construction of the Chrysler Building to that of Solomon’s Temple

and provides a setting for an escalating clash between Hiram Abiff, architect

of Solomon’s Temple and archetypal Master Builder in the Masonic Order

(played by Serra), and the Entered Apprentice (played by Barney) (fig. 3).

Surmounting the five levels of initiation into the Masonic rites drives this

episode, as well as the interlude (subtitled The Order) in which Barney over-

comes complex obstacles at each level of the Guggenheim Museum’s ro-

tunda, themselves now symbolic of each of the films in the Cremaster cycle.

Set on the Isle of Man, Cremaster 4 (1994) stages a motorcycle race between

two teams travelling in opposite directions around the perimeter of the

f i g u r e 3. Matthew Barney, Cremaster 3, 2002. Production still from film,

showing Richard Serra as Grand Master. � 2002 Matthew Barney.

Photograph: Chris Winget. Courtesy Barbara Gladstone Gallery, New York.


roughly circular island, representing in turn the cremaster muscleascended,

thus undifferentiated but tending to the feminine, and the muscle de-

scended, thus tending to differentiation and the masculine. The teams are,

however, symbolically tied to each other. Descension is finally attained in

Cremaster 5 (1997). Set at key sites in Budapest—the Lanchıd (Chainlink)

Bridge, the Opera House, and the Gellert Thermal Baths—it performs, as

if in a dream, the longing, despair, and eventual death of the Queen of Chain

(played by Ursula Andress) and her Diva, Magician, and Giant (all played

by the artist).

Despite its complex structure and postmodern stylistics, this is a quest

narrative, a search for belonging through places that have their own im-

peratives amidst physical and social processes that are strangely subject to

incessant fusion and separation, isolation and metamorphosis. Although

more up-to-date and engaged with media culture, the work requires a re-

lationship to the spectator as direct as it is in Serra’s work. This—the Cre-

master cycle claims—is what it is to be in the era of cultural division and

genetic engineering. The same spirit of individual battling against unfath-

omable odds to surrender individuality and achieve community accep-

tance, the same insatiably active embrace of ultimate passivity, underlies the

success of novels and films such as Lord of the Rings and the vast member-

ship, worldwide, of cults, organized religions, and civic organizations. Like

them, this spirit makes the Cremaster cycle at once extraordinary and banal.

Works such as these provide the first powerful answer to the question of

the nature of art in these times: contemporary art, as a movement, has be-

come the new modern or, what amounts to the same thing, the old modern

in new clothes. In its most institutionalized forms—from the triumphalist

overreach of the Guggenheim Museum’s global franchising through theOld

Master elegance of the installations at Dia:Beacon to the confused gesturing

in the contemporary galleries when the Museum of Modern Art, New

York, reopened in 2004—it is the latest phase in the century-and-a-half-

long story of modern art in Europe and its cultural colonies, a continuation

of the modernist lineage, warily selected not least in an attempt to preserve

this cultural balance of power. Official contemporary art resonates with the

vivid confidence and the comforting occlusion that comes with it, taking

itself to be the high cultural style of its time. Think (as a beginning of a list

of the best of it) of not only the work by Serra and Barney but also of Jeff

Koons at fifty, the subadolescent consumerlands of Takashi Murakami and

Mariko Mori, Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome as distinct from Mad Max,

The Matrix Revolutions, Gerhard Richter’s paintings, Andreas Gursky’s

scale, Thomas Struth’s subjects and Thomas Demand’s style, Wang Quing-

song’s The Night Revels of Lao Li alongside his China Mansion, Damien


Hirst’s early work but not the Benneton-advertisement-style return to

painting in his 2005 exhibition The Elusive Truth! Tracey Emin’s I’ve Got It

All! and so on, through all the major survey exhibitions and the latest sales

of contemporary art for record prices.5 Someone, soon, may baptize it “con-

temporism”—a contraction, perhaps, of contemporary modernism—or

“remodernism”—emphasizing its renovating, recursive character—to pre-

dictable scorn followed by eventual acceptance. In architecture, the parallel

impulse has recovered an old label: late modern.6 Better, perhaps, not to

name it: like all unspecifiable but deeply desired values, it is more powerful

when taken for granted.

Passages between CulturesThe main action of Shirin Neshat’s 2001 video Passage consists of a group

of white-shirted men carrying something, probably a body, across a north

African/Middle Eastern desert (fig. 4). Lacking symbols, hierarchy, and any

evident ritual, their purpose—however urgent and relentless it might seem

from the driving Philip Glass score that accompanies them—is as ambig-

uous as the state of the body they bear. The video constantly intercuts to a

group of women circled closely together, wailing loudly and beating at

something unseen on the stony ground between them. In the penultimate

scene, the men deliver their nearly invisible burden into the space cleared

by the women. Just at that moment, a fire breaks out and travels along a

triangular stone wall. The camera pans to a young girl who, it suddenly

seems, has been hiding there all along, a silent witness to something un-

fathomable. Equally, she may have been abruptly conjured into this role by

the process itself. This work is typical of the kind of contemporary art that

locates itself at the emotional core of a culture that seems to have nothing

that is contemporary about it, yet it persists. Indeed, in parts of the world,

it is ascendant. It is a culture that draws a worldly feminist artist (whose

work tracks the inner worlds of exile, including the trenchant power of ste-

reotypes) to its implacable differencing between men and women as an ex-

perience of trauma. In contrast to Barney’s baroque allegories, irony is

irrelevant. Anachronism is relevant, but it is questioned. The very idea that

one kind of culture, the modernizing ones, gets to decide that another is

anachronistic is questioned (not least in Neshat’s activation of the aesthetics

of Iranian film). Before 9/11, in a number of powerful works—Turbulent

5. On this topic, see my “Primacy, Convergence, Currency: Marketing Contemporary Art in

the Conditions of Contemporaneity” (parts 1 and 2), Art Papers 29 (May–June 2005): 22–27 and

(July–Aug. 2005): 22–27.

6. For a discussion of contemporary architecture parallel to that offered in this article see my

The Architecture of Aftermath (Chicago, 2006).


7. See Shirin Neshat, ed. Lisa Corrin (exhibition catalog, Serpentine Gallery, London, and Wein

Kunsthalle, Vienna, 2000), and Shirin Neshat, ed. Giorgio Verzotti (exhibition catalog, Charta and

Castello di Rivoli Museo d’Arte, Milan, 30 Jan.–5 May 2002). The complexities of Neshat’s

situatedness are explored by Wendy Meryem K. Shaw, “Ambiguity and Audience in the Films of

Shirin Neshat,” Third Text, no. 57 (Winter 2001–2): 43–52.

(1998), Fervor (2000), and Rapture and Possessed (both 2001)—Neshat

showed that feudal structures not only persist in the cultures of the Middle

East and northern Africa but also are present at the roots of all of our re-

lationships. The last scene of Passage implies that death exists beyondgender

division, as does the recurrence of life, however marked both may be by

trauma. This is to show us something that is, at once, both incomprehen-

sibly strange yet hauntingly familiar, without pretending (in however subtle

or deferred ways) to possess the tools to resolve this tension in favor of one

or another category of redemption. Art growing out of the complexities of

contemporaneity cannot offer easy outs.7

Neshat came to prominence as a visual poet of the inscriptions of power,

tradition, and institutionalized religion on the bodies of women in patri-

archal cultures, notably in her photograph series The Women of Allah (1993–

97). Iranian performance artist Ghazel approaches the same subjects, but

from within a very different aesthetic. In her set of three videos, Me in 2000,

2001, 2002 (fig. 5), she parodies both Islamic dress codes and the typical

tropes of conceptual art by performing a number of nominated actions

f i g u r e 4. Shirin Neshat, Passage. Production still from video. � Shirin Neshat 2001.

Photograph: Larry Barns. Courtesy Barbara Gladstone Gallery, New York.


based on commonsense sentiments while dressed in her burka. In Everyone

Dreams of Staying Young and Fresh, for example, she wraps her already fully

clad body in food-preserving foil. This rather desperate hilarity stands in

marked contrast to the portentous character of Neshat’s most recent epics,

such as Tooba (2002) and Women without Men (2004).

The contradictions in play here achieve explicitly public political dimen-

sions in the work of many artists. In Ayanah Moor’s 2004 wall installation,

Never.Ignorant.Gettin’ Goals.Accomplished., the words of the title—an ex-

hortation much used in encouragement manuals, including those aimed at

African Americans, seeking to promote “the New Negro”—are juxtaposed

with a mural-sized image taken from a magazine color photograph of Con-

doleezza Rice being kissed by President George W. Bush during the pre-

sentation of her as secretary of state (fig. 6). Seen one way, the words and

the image are in exact complementarity, flush with the self-evident reali-

zation of equal opportunity. This looks like what the televisual opportunity

was intended to be: a resplendent advertisement for the American Dream.

When, however, we read the words as marching on the image, and link left

to right the first letters of each word, the opposite meaning erupts. Estab-

lishment opportunism kicks us in the stomach and claws its way back in.

The moral vacuity at the heart of the current administration stands naked,

smirking and squirming, in the light. The illusion of simple equality is oblit-

erated, irretrievably, by laying bare its circumstantial cost.

Moor has recently taken an oath to reject further offers to show her work

in exhibitions that are framed in terms of black American identity, including

those devoted to interrogating its conditions and questioning its limits.This

puts the entire trajectory of her work to date at risk. This depth of impa-

f i g u r e 5. Ghazel, Me in 2003. Video still, installation at Havana Biennale, 2003. Photograph:

Miguel Rojas-Sotelo.


tience with categorization is becoming more common and signals a shift

beyond the framework in which Neshat, for example, continues to work.

These comparisons bring us through and up to the current edges of the

second wide-scale answer of what constitutes truly contemporary art: that

which emerges from within the conditions of contemporaneity, including

the remnants of the cultures of modernity and postmodernity, but which

projects itself through and around these, as an art of that which actually is

in the world, of what it is to be in the world, and of that which is to come.

Its impulses are specific yet worldly, even multitudinous, inclusive yet op-

positional and anti-institutional, concrete but also various, mobile, and

open-ended. In 2002, after two decades in which it propelled the Biennale

circuit, this kind of art swarmed the precincts of contemporary art, un-

mistakably and irretrievably, via the platforms of Documenta 11. For the first

time in a major international survey exhibition, art from second, third, and

fourth worlds, and that concerned with traffic between these and the first

world, took up most of the spaces and set the agenda. (One major recog-

f i g u r e 6. Ayanah Moor, Never.Ignorant.Gettin’ Goals.Accomplished. Installation, 2004.

Courtesy of the artist.


8. Kirk Varnedoe, “Introduction,” in Modern Contemporary: Art at MoMA since 1980, ed.

Varnedoe, Paola Antonelli, and Joshua Siegel (exhibition catalog, MoMA, New York, 28 Sept.

2000–30 Jan. 2001), p. 12. For a critique of MoMA’s millennial exhibitions, particularly

Modernstarts: People. Places. Things., see Franco Moretti, “MoMA2000: The Capitulation,” New

Left Review 4, 2d ser. (July–Aug. 2000): 98–102.

nition was that dividing the world into these worlds had been a ruinous

enterprise and was failing.) Confused curatorial retreat and a fierce rear-

guard action—fought in the name of the rights of the spectator—has halted

this advance, but for who knows how long?

Curators Stage the DebateThe debate over Documenta 11 brought to the surface certain value an-

tipathies that have been looming since around 1980 and have been at the

baseline of artworld discourse for at least half a decade. Sometimes, when

the grinding between them gets too hard, they appear in raw terms. Thus

Kurt Varnedoe wrote, in 2000, locating the historical significance of

MoMA’s collections of recent art as manifest in a series of millennial ex-

hibitions prior to the museum’s closure for renovation:

There is an argument to be made that the revolutions that originally

produced modern art, in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centu-

ries, have not been concluded or superseded—and thus that contempo-

rary art today can be understood as the ongoing extension and revision

of those founding innovations and debates. The collection of The Mu-

seum of Modern Art is, in a very real sense, that argument. Contempo-

rary art is collected and presented at this Museum as part of modern

art—as belonging within, responding to, and expanding upon the

framework of initiatives and challenges established by the earlier history

of progressive art since the dawn of the twentieth century.8

Compare this conception of what was most at stake in millennial art ex-

hibitions to that of another curator, Okwui Enwezor, introducing the plat-

forms that constituted Documenta 11, of which he was artistic director. After

a series of discussions, held in different cities throughout 2001, and covering

such topics as “Democracy Unrealized” (Vienna and Berlin), “Experiments

with Truth: Transitional Justice and the Processes of Truth and Reconcili-

ation” (New Delhi), “Creolite and Creolization” (St. Lucia), and “Under

Siege: Four African Cities, Freetown, Johannesburg, Kinshasa, Lagos” (La-

gos), the exhibition opened in Kassel, Germany, in 2002.

The collected result in the form of a series of volumes and exhibitions is

placed at the dialectical intersection of contemporary art and culture. Such

an intersection equally marks the limits out of which the postcolonial,post–

cold war, postideological, transnational, deterritorialized, diasporic, global


9. See Okwui Enwezor, “The Black Box,” in Documenta 11—Platform 5: Exhibition (exhibition

catalog, Kassel, 8 June–15 Sept. 2002), p. 55. The exhibition has attracted much partisan comment,

pro and con. More useful are questions such as those raised by Sylvester Okwunodu Ogbechie,

“Ordering the Universe: Documenta 11 and the Apotheosis of the Occidental Gaze,” Art Journal 64

(Spring 2005): 80–89.

10. Diedrich Diederichsen, “Formalismus,” Artforum 29 (Mar. 2005): 231.

11. Ibid. He alludes to Nicolas Bourriaud, Relational Aesthetics, trans. Simon Pleasance, Fronza

Woods, and Mathieu Copeland (1998; Dijon, 2002) and Post-Production (New York, 2002), both

discussed in Claire Bishop, “Antagonism and Relational Aesthetics,” October, no. 110 (Fall 2004):

51–79.

world has been written. This dialectical enterprise attempts to establish

imaginative and concrete links within the various projects of modernity.

Their impact, as well as their material and symbolic ordering, is woven

through procedures of translation, interpretation, subversion, hybridiza-

tion, creolization, displacement, and reassemblage. What emerges in this

transformation in different parts of the world produces a critical ordering

of intellectual and artistic networks of the globalizing world. The exhibition

as a diagnostic toolbox actively seeks to stage the relationships, conjunc-

tions, and disjunctions between different realities: between artists, institu-

tions, disciplines, genres, generations, processes, forms, media, activities. In

short, between identity and subjectification. Linking together the first four

platforms, the Kassel exhibition counterposed the supposed purity and au-

tonomy of the art object against a rethinking of modernity based on ideas

of transculturality and extraterritoriality. Thus, the exhibition project of the

fifth platform was less a receptacle of commodity objects than a container

for a plurality of voices, a material reflection on a series of disparate and

interconnected actions and processes.9

Seeking a middle path between these two contending forces—one a tir-

ing juggernaut, the other a swarming of attack vehicles—has become com-

mon. A recent Hamburger Kunstverein exhibition, Formalismus, was

conceived, in the words of Berlin critic Diedrich Diederichsen, as “a reex-

amination of the basic ideas of modernism in light of the verycontemporary

cognizance that every detail of presentation and production is already con-

taminated by specific histories.”10 Translating this into art discursivepolem-

ics, this amounts to a rereading of residual modernist formalism through

the repeating, remixing lens of relational aesthetics, in the not-so-secret

hope of surprising with an object-focussed art more integral,more powerful

than both popular, everyday-life recycling practices and “a world choked

with referentiality.”11

Grounding one set of values, these days, usually means doing so in re-

lation to other sets. Diederichsen understands the relationship between

what I have described as the two big answers this way:


Theoretical ambitions notwithstanding, the exhibition offered a sophis-

ticated overview of art today. The work provided an alternative to cer-

tain regressive and particularistic tendencies: on the one hand, the

return to the normality of painting and spectacular images in keeping

with the logic of the art market; on the other, the recourse to an art that

is satisfied with constructing global networks of semi-politicized crea-

tive subcultures.12

From where he stands, both of the big answers are reductive options, and

each is as empty as the other. To him, the only way forward is between them,

via “dialectical synthesis.” His approach is certainly synthetic, but it is di-

alectical only in the simplest, static sense. A more complex sense of dialec-

tical fury was a key to Enwezor’s conception of Documenta 11. For me, the

“dialectic” is between three terms (only two of which I have set out so far)

that are tied to each other, uncomfortably but of necessity, as contraries that

are only partially synthesizable, that are highly generative but only as sup-

plements of their mismatching—that are, in a word, antinomies.

Problems and a ProposalA further step needs to be taken. While the two big picture approaches

have an undeniably powerful currency and are accurate accounts as far as

they go, neither of them fully addresses the changes in actual artistic prac-

tices that have, for arguably three decades now, marked out more and more

artistic production as distinctively contemporary—as opposed to that

which continues to be made in modernist, or even postmodern, modes.The

“contemporary art” juggernaut operates primarily in terms of frame-

works—managerial, curatorial, corporate, historical, commercial, educa-

tional—imposed by art institutions, themselves a key part of a now

pervasive, beguilingly distractive but at bottom hollow cultural industry.

The guerrilla swarming of the others is marked by acknowledgment of the

psychic, social, cultural, and political settings in which art is made, of the

demands that these conditions make upon practice, and the extent to which

they provide the content of much contemporary art and establish its cir-

cuitry of communication. (It will be obvious already that the second in-

corporates the first; I separate them here to highlight an important tension

within contemporary art, one to which I shall keep returning.) A third, and

better, answer would be one in which the smaller-scale strategies listed in

my opening paragraph, along with many others, are understood not as mere

artworld stylistics but as symptoms of a limited number of powerful, shared

tendencies that are themselves the outcome, not of a persistent modernist

12. Diederichsen, “Formalismus,” p. 231.


formalism, but of the great changes of the 1960s and 1970s, the paradigm

shifters internal to art itself, and those of a world reshaped by rapid decol-

onization and incipient globalization. This is the domain across which

something strange, almost impossible, occurs, and has been occurring for

decades. We might call it dialectical supplementarity or, better, antinomic

exchange. It is just this quality, let me suggest, that infuses truly contem-

porary art and is the key to its contemporaneity.

Before exploring this idea in any depth, some conceptual issues need to

be cleared, some obvious objections met. On the face of it, calling the art

of our day contemporary tells us nothing other than the banal fact that it

is being made now. It is something that could have been said at any time,

and, in the past at least, the contemporaneous qualities of an artwork—

however initially attractive—were usually the least interesting things about

it. To periodize the ephemeral as contemporary art might be to repeat the

mistake made when the same was done with modern art, only more so,

because the word contemporary—in its ordinary usages—is even less res-

onant than the word modern. Contemporary art seems a vacuous place-

holder, but for what? Is there something there that cannot name itself—or

not yet? Or is it simply a fancy name for the most refined of those objects

that serve spectacle society by inducing in their beholders the preferredstate

of attenuated distraction? Similarly, it is fair to ask, What is contemporaneity

other than a pointer (empty as a signifier, overfull as a signified) to whatever

it is that is occurring in all of the world right now? How could such a term

match, let alone supplant, modernity and postmodernity as a descriptor of

the state of things?

In logic, these objections fail because they could, themselves, be made at

any time. They are posed, however, in more pragmatic realms: studios,desk-

tops, galleries, marketplaces. The interesting question is whether or not

there is something distinctive about the present conjunction of forces in

such realms that attracts this kind of paradox. Donald Kuspit, for one, senses

that there is. In a recent article on “The Contemporary and the Historical”

he unleashes most of the standard objections against efforts to see structure

in the present chaos, yet acknowledges that something has changed:

There has always been more contemporary than historical art—or, to

put it more broadly, there has always been more contemporaneity than

historicity—but this fact only became emphatically explicit in moder-

nity.

Art history’s attempt to control contemporaneity—and with that

the temporal flow of art events—by stripping certain art events of their

idiosyncracy and incidentalness in the name of some absolute system of

value, was overwhelmed by the abundance of contemporary art evi-


dence that proposed alternative and often radically contrary ideas of

value.13

He does not specify precisely when this change occurred, but his

examples all have it being introduced in the 1960s, when “the turbulent

pluralism of modern art . . . increased exponentially in the postmodern

situation” (“CH”). He takes this to be the naturally, or at least historically,

evolved state of contemporary art production, and so he attacks artists, crit-

ics, curators, and historians who would try to second-guess art history by

preferring “the happy few or One and Only truly and absolutely significant

artist” (“CH”). The responsible role for criticism in this context is, he be-

lieves, to keep advancing a “pluralism of critical interpretations” of current,

recent, and past art in order to “keep it in contemporary play.” For Kuspit,

“the power of the contemporary comes from the insecurity of being ephem-

eral,” so that nominating particular artworks, or works by select artists, as

today’s art for the future is to reduce them to “sterile homogeneity”—to

kill off precisely that power to persist and to attract future critical interest

(“CH”). In the current context, which he sees quite accurately as domi-

nated, on the one hand, by a Malthusian overproduction of artists and, on

the other, by the exclusivist superficiality of extraordinary auction prices

and media-sensationalist celebrity, any form of interpretive generalization

will be self-defeating at best, at worst complicit. When this is put alongside

the incommensurate particularity and radical incompleteness that is nat-

ural to the contemporary, the only option for criticism is, he believes, the

making of “an interpretive case for a particular art’s interestingness by

tracking its environmental development in the context of the observer-

interpreter’s phenomenological articulation of his or her complex experi-

ence of it” (“CH”). Criticism, then, not history. Or history as accreted

criticism.

Kuspit is right about the dangers of generalization in a situation where

the shots are being called by inimical institutional, media, and market

forces. But singularizing particularity, however shrouded in objections to

the larger forces, is no solution. An engaged, implicated relativism is more

difficult, but more responsible. Here is my proposal. I believe that the ques-

tion, What is contemporary art now? requires a response consisting neither

of discerning a middle path between two of the big answers sketched above

nor of setting them into either/or confrontation. Rather, it involves taking

the three answers together as each containing differing kinds, and degrees,

13. Donald Kuspit, “The Contemporary and the Historical,” Artnet, 13 Apr. 2005, www.artnet.

com/Magazine/features/kuspit/kuspit4-14-05.asp; hereafter abbreviated “CH.” These views are

given fuller treatment in Kuspit, The End of Art (New York, 2004).


15. As I write these lines, my mind’s eye passes across the street and through the rooms of the

Carnegie Museum of Art, Pittsburgh, where the fifty-fourth Carnegie International was shown,

November 2004 to March 2005. A number of works in that show display an urge to engage with

contemporaneity in the ways I have just sketched. These include Kutlug Ataman’s Kuba (2004),

Paul Chan’s Happiness (Finally) after 35,000 Years of Civilization—after Henry Darger and Charles

Fourier (2000–2003), Maurizio Cattelan’s Now (2004), Francis Alys’s The Prophet (a series begun

1992), Araya Rasdjarmrearnsook’s Reading Inaow for Female Corpse (2001), Fernando Bryce’s

Revolucion (2004), a number of recent paintings by Neo Rausch, Harun Farocki’s Eye/Machine II

(2002), Julie Mehretu’s Untitled (Stadia) (2004), Isa Genzhken’s Empire/Vampire, Who Kills Death

(2003), Rachael Harrison’s Untitled (Perth Amboy) (2001), and Oliver Payne and Nick Relph’s film,

Driftwood (1999). Carnegie International curator Laura Hoptman opted for art that, she felt, dealt

with “the Ultimates. . . . fundamentally human questions: the nature of life and death, the

existence of God, the anatomy of belief ” (Laura Hoptman, “The Essential Thirty-eight,” The Fifty-

fourth Carnegie International, ed. Hoptman [exhibition catalog, Carnegie Museum of Art,

Pittsburgh, 9 Oct. 2004–20 Mar. 2005], pp. 17, 35).

of present-making power. We should treat them as antinomies—that is, as

statements about reality that, when linked, are contradictions incapable of

mutual resolution without the obliteration of all but one, yet each of which

remains true in itself.14 We should recognize the energy of their profound

contention. Every situation that is truly contemporary is an outcome of the

friction between them. Working within but also against this general condi-

tion, art supplies provisional syntheses, provides pauses in the overall rush

into the unsynthesizable, showing its flows as if in section or as glimpses fro-

zen into objects intended for passersby, modelling the minutiae of the world’s

processes as supplements deposited in their wake. These are the kinds of

time that art is taking these days, this is how it uncovers images, these are

the ways in which it arrives at made things, and why it sets up settings.15

Dislocation and SituatednessWhen I think of artists whose work has, over the past few years, tapped

closest into the demands of contemporaneity, I recognize that all of them

are committed to an art that turns on long-term, exemplary projects that

discern the antinomies of the world as it is, that display the workings of

globality and locality, and that imagine ways of living ethically within

them: Turkey Tolson Tjuppurrula’s painted meditations on peace, Rover

Thomas’s ancient dreaming in the present, Emily Kngwarreye’s withheld

exposures of her earthworlds, Gordon Bennett’s black/white Australian

history paintings, the revelatory hoardings of Georges Adeagbo, Hans

Haacke’s persistent criticality, the war architecture of Lebbeus Woods,

14. I thank Okwui Enwezor for reminding me of this relation; it was crucial to the

conceptualization of the symposium Modernity and Contemporaneity: Antinomies of Art and

Culture after the Twentieth Century, jointly convened by us with Nancy Condee and held at the

University of Pittsburgh, 4–6 November 2004, in which many of the issues raised in this essay were

canvassed. See Antinomies of Art and Culture: Modernity, Postmodernity and Contemporaneity, ed.

Smith, Nancy Condee, and Enwezor (Durham, N.C., forthcoming).


Doris Salcedo’s registrations of enforced disappearance, Richard Pettibon,

Tania Bruguera, and Jorge Macchi on the vicissitudes of public speech,Allan

Sekula’s tracking of global maritime flows, Mark Lombardi’s delicate dia-

grams of the criminality of international economies, Zoe Leonard’s records

of economic place making, Fiona Hall’s meditations on cultural currency,

Wenda Gu’s united nations project, Thomas Hirschhorn’s antimonuments,

William Kentridge tapping his country’s racial unconscious, Chantal Ack-

erman charting border crossings, the arch commentary of the Atlas Group,

the communal cultural work of groups such as Huit Fachette and Woch-

enkausur, Felix Gonzales-Torres’s reflections on personal loss, Cindy Sher-

man, Shirin Neshat, Mona Hatoum, Ilona Nemeth, and Marlene Dumas

figuring the misshaping of women by societies, Isaac Julien the circuitry of

desire, and Mary Kelly the traumas of motherhood, Jean-Pierre Bruyere’s

photographic and iCinema allegories of the lifeworlds of young children in

the cities of the Congo, the masquerades of Tracey Moffatt and Ayanah

Moor aimed at subverting the racial identity categories imposed on them—

these are just some examples of significant art being made all over the world.

Accusations of sensationalism, esoteric irrelevance, and bad faith do not

apply. It is an impressive body of work, and it’s growing.

Nor would I wish to divide current practitioners into two camps, baldly

opposed. While the contemporary artists listed earlier remain framed by

the ruins of the modernist project, their work gains much of its subliminal

power from an engagement, however filtered, with the demands of contem-

poraneity. Similarly, those artists just listed cannot avoid these same mod-

ernist ruins; the difference is that they treat them as echoes, as hollow

resonances, and get on with their search for an aesthetics and ethics that

might be viable in the aftermath. There are, as well, many other artists who

operate between these tendencies, not to resolve them, but to extend their

premises outward: the plethora of artist’s museums, not least the Museum

of Jurassic Technology, in Los Angeles, Rachael Whiteread’s castvoids,Rich-

ard Wilson’s various installations of 20/50, Bill Viola’s efforts to reinspire

spirituality, Ilya Kabakov’s ideological memory capsules, the resonant

photo tableaux of Tracey Moffatt, Jeff Wall, and Bill Henson, the inventive

recycling of Pierre Huyghe and Douglas Gordon among many others, Ed-

uardo Kac and Patricia Piccinini’s startling evocations of cloning, Rirkrit

Tiravanija’s open invitations, the coy meditations on everyday life of Rivane

Neuenschwander, the sharp parodies of the international art system by An-

drea Fraser, Tanja Ostojic, and Martın Shastre, the chameleon public sphere

politics of the Yes Men and increasing numbers of collectives, such as Bijari,

contra file, and La Baulera.

Slight gestures, feral strategies, mild subversions, small steps. To which


16. See Hans Robert Jauss, “Modernity and Literary Tradition,” trans. Christian Thorne,

Critical Inquiry 31 (Winter 2005): 329–64.

17. Augustine places this sense of time, that of the “human soul,” against God’s eternal time,

and goes on to note that “these three do somehow exist in the mind, for otherwise I do not see

them: there is present of things past, memory; present of things present, sight; present of things

future, expectation” (Augustine, The Confessions of St. Augustine, trans. Hal M. Helms [Orleans,

Mass., 1986], p. 246). I am indebted to Wolf Schafer, “Global History and the Present Time,” in

Wiring Prometheus: Globalization, History, and Technology, ed. Peter Lyth and Helmut Trischler

(Aarhus, Denmark, 2004), p. 103, for this reminder.

purposes and in the names of which values? These questions can still be

posed and be answered (although an extended consideration must be de-

ferred). In brief, it seems to me that at least four themes course through the

heterogeneity that is natural to contemporaneity. All of the artists men-

tioned, and the thousands more of whom they are representatives, focus

their wide-ranging concerns on questions of time, place, mediation, and

mood. They make visible our sense that these fundamental, familiar con-

stituents of being are becoming, each day, steadily more strange. Nowadays,

the list looks more like: (alter)temporality, (dis)location, transformativity

within the hyperreal, and the altercation of affect/effectivity. Within this

contemporaneity, they seek sustainable modes of survival, cooperation,and

growth.

The Thickening of the PresentIn the ancient world, around the shores of the Mediterranean, the word

modern (modernus) distinguished a mood, or mode, of fullness emergent

in the otherwise ordinary passing of time and within the predictable un-

folding of fashion (hodiernus, “of today”).16 This sense that the present

could be pregnant with something special about itself—manifestasaquality

later called nowness—persisted until late medieval times, when contrast

with what was seen to be the past, and then several past periods, became

central to the meaning of modern. An early formulation was that of St.

Augustine: “There are three times: a present of things past, a present of

things present; and a present of future things.”17

In the expanded modern world, however, modern became the core of a

set of terms that narrated the two-centuries-long formation of modernity

in terms of novelty, pastness, and futurism, not least those of its definitive

artistic currents, modern art and modernism, modern movement archi-

tecture and modern or contemporary design. Despite the vibrancy of these

tendencies, the “modern” aged, as its time went on, until it became, in a

paradox tolerated by most, historical. Indeed, it became the name of its own

period, one that would, it was presumed, become increasingly modern,

without end. Recently, however, in most ordinary usage—in English and in


18. Boris Groys, “Topology of Contemporary Art,” in Antinomies of Art and Culture.

19. Quoted in Schafer, “Global History and the Present Time,” p. 120.

some but not all other European languages—it has surrendered currency

to the term contemporary and its cognates. St. Augustine’s accumulation of

presents has returned, uncannily, to currency.

For most of the twentieth century, and especially in the 1920s and the

1960s, when modernist attitudes prevailed, the word contemporary served,

in art discourse as elsewhere, mainly as a default for modern. Boris Groys

points out the main reason:

Modern art is (or, rather, was) directed towards the future. Being mod-

ern means to live in a project, to practice a work in progress. Because

of this permanent movement towards the future modern art tends

to overlook, to forget the present, to reduce it to a permanently self-

effacing moment of transition from past to future.18

Nevertheless, a number of the most engaged contemporary artists are re-

defining what it means to live in a project and doing so in terms that ac-

knowledge the power of the present. This shift has been occurring since the

decline of modernism in the 1980s and has appeared in institutional nam-

ing—of galleries, museums, auction house departments, academic courses,

and textbook titles—which, however, tend to use contemporary as a soft

signifier of current plurality.

This change echoes a larger one. Modernity has not, for decades, been

able to maintain its division of the world into those who live in modern

times and those who, while physically present, were regarded as noncon-

temporaneous beings. In arguing that the global spread of information and

the instantaneousness of its communication now means that the “socio-

temporal world order is changing in favor of contemporaneity for all,” Wolf

Schafer cites a passage from Cheikh Hamidou Kane’s 1961 novel Ambiguous

Adventure, an exchange between the father of a young Senegalese revolu-

tionary and a French teacher:

We have not had the same past, you and ourselves, but we shall have,

strictly, the same future. The era of separate destinies has run its course.

In that sense, the end of the world has indeed come for every one of us,

because no one can any longer live by the simple carrying out of what

he himself is.19

Increased opportunity of access has not, of course, meant equality of out-

come—on the contrary—nor has it meant (contrary to early fears about


globalization) homogeneity of choices. During the period of modernity’s

dominance, the downside of what used to be called cultural imperialism

was a kind of ethnic cleansing carried out by the displacement of unmodern

peoples into past, slower, or frozen time. In a mediascape characterized by

such contrary forces as instant communication of key decisions by political

leaders and the capacity to demonstrate against them within the same news

cycle, the power to force everyone forward in broadly the same direction

has been lost. In many parts of the world, consciousness is concerned with

taking many steps, fast, not from the old to the new but vice versa. Multiple

temporalities are the rule these days, and their conceptions of historical

development move in multifarious directions. Against this broad tide, fun-

damentalisms move in just one direction, implacably. In these conflicted

circumstances, any appellation that ties a current world description entirely

to modernity, in however conditional a manner, and however decked out

with a modified version of postmodernity, will miss as much of the main

point as do the fundamentalisms.

Are we at a threshold of large-scale meaning change, yet again? If so, it

is one that has built its gateway around us through indirection and as an

outcome of quite other great changes: the reduction of modernity to “the

only remaining superpower,” the evaporation of postmodernism as a one-

generation wonder, and the isolation of postmodernity as a fate of the West

(or, at least, of many parts and elements of it), but not the world. Nor does

postmodernity explain enough of what is happening in what remains of the

West as the world migrates to it, everyone changing as they come and go.

In these circumstances, it might be time to grasp a more supple set of ways

of being in time now and to shift to another set of terms. There is such a

set, lying close by.

Regarding ContemporaneityThe word contemporary has always meant more than just the plain and

passing present. Its etymology, we can now see, is as rich as that of modern.

The term contemporary calibrates a number of distinct but related ways of

being in or with time, even of being in and out of time at the same time.

Indeed, for a while, during the seventeenth century in England, it seemed

that cotemporary might overtake it to express this strange currency. The cur-

rent edition of the Oxford English Dictionary gives four major meanings.

They are all relational, turning on prepositions, on being placed to, from,

at, or during time. There is the strong sense of “belonging to the same time,

age, or period,” the coincidental “having existed or lived from the samedate,

equal in age, coeval,” and the adventitious “occurring at the same moment

of time, or during the same period; occupying the same definite period,


contemporaneous, simultaneous.” In each of these meanings there is a dis-

tinctive sense of presentness, of being in the present, of beings who are (that

are) present to each other, and to the time they happen to be in. Of course,

these kinds of relationships have occurred at all times in the historical past,

do so now, and will do so in the future. The second and third meanings

make this clear, whereas the first points to the phenomenon of two or more

people, events, ideas, or things “belonging” to the same historical time. Yet,

even here, while the connectedness is stronger, while the phenomena may

have some sense of being joined by their contemporaneousness, they may

equally well do so, as it were, separately, standing alongside yet apart from

each other, existing in simple simultaneity. They may also subsist in a com-

plex awareness that, given human difference, their contemporaries may not

stand in relation to time as they do. Finally, given the diversity of present

experiences of temporality, they may feel themselves as standing, in im-

portant senses, at once within and against the times.

It is the OED’s fourth definition of contemporary that brings persons,

things, ideas, and time together under a one-directional banner: “Modern;

of or characteristic of the present period; especially up-to-date, ultra-

modern; specifically designating art of a markedly avant-garde quality, or

furniture, building, decoration, etc. having modern characteristics.” In this

definition, the two words have finally exchanged their core meaning: the

contemporary has become the new modern. We are, following this logic,

out of the modern age, or era, and in that of the contemporary.

To leap to such a conclusion would be to miss an essential quality of

contemporaneousness: its immediacy, its presentness, its instantaneity, its

prioritizing of the moment over the time, the instant over the epoch, of

direct experience of multiplicitous complexity over the singular simplicity

of distanced reflection. It is the pregnant present of the original meaning

of modern, but without its subsequent contract with the future. If we were

to generalize this quality (of course, against its grain) as a key to world pic-

turing, we would see its constituent features manifest there to the virtual

exclusion of other explanations. We would see, then, that contemporaneity

consists precisely in the constant experience of radical disjunctures of percep-

tion, mismatching ways of seeing and valuing the same world, in the actual

coincidence of asynchronous temporalities, in the jostling contingency of vari-

ous cultural and social multiplicities, all thrown together in ways that highlight

the fast-growing inequalities within and between them. This certainly looks

like the world as it is now. No longer does it feel like “our time” because

“our” cannot stretch to encompass its contrariness. Nor, indeed, is it “a

time” because if the modern were inclined above all to define itself as a

period, and sort the past into periods, in contemporaneity periodization is


Terror: Dialogues with Jurgen Habermas and Jacques Derrida, ed. Giovanna Borradori (Chicago,

2003).

22. Baudelaire’s famous formulation—“La modernite, c’est le transitoire, le fugitif, le

contingent, la moitie de l’art, dont l’autre moitie est l’eternel et l’immuable” (“By modernity I

mean the ephemeral, the fugitive, the contingent, the half of art whose other half is the eternal and

the immutable”)—appears in Charles Baudelaire, “The Painter of Modern Life” (1864), “The

Painter of Modern Life” and Other Essays, trans. Jonathan Mayne (London, 1964), p. 12.

23. See J. R. McNeill and William H. McNeill, The Human Web (New York, 2003), esp. the

introduction and chap. 8.

24. Manuel de Landa, A Thousand Years of Nonlinear History (New York, 2000), p. 21; see also

pp. 227–74.

impossible.20 This suggests that the only potentially permanent thing about

this state of affairs is that its impermanence may last forever. The present

may become “eternal,” not in a state of wrought transfiguration, as Baude-

laire had hoped, but as a kind of incessant incipience, of the kind theorized

by Jacques Derrida as l’avenir, as perpetual advent, that which is, while im-

possible to foresee or predict, to come.21

“Multeity,” “altertemporality,” and inequity are not only the most strik-

ing features on any short list of the qualities of contemporaneity; they are

at its volatile core. Unlike Baudelaire’s famous markers of modernite, they

are not the symptoms of a deeper stability or an entry point to its achieve-

ment.22 In the aftermath of modernity and the passing of the postmodern,

they may be all that there is. This is why there is no longer any overarching

explanatory totality that accurately accumulates and convincinglyaccounts

for these proliferating differences. The particular, it seems, is now general

and, perhaps, forever shall be.

Following my reservation about Kuspit’s conclusion, this is not a rec-

ommendation for stand-alone, singularizing particularism; rather, it is an

appeal for radical particularism to work with and against radical general-

ization, to treat all the elements in the mix as antinomies. Global historians

continue to do us great service by tracking the trajectories of large forces

that unfold through lengthy durations. These include the social and eco-

logical elements—localized, metropolitan, and cosmopolitan—of the

successively expanding “human web” described, for example, by the

McNeills.23 Yet it is equally important to weave into these accounts recog-

nition of the less visible workings of what de Landa names “matter-

energy.”24 Yet a paradoxical outcome of recent long-term historical

explanations is their unusual degree of uncertainty with regard to the im-

20. This responds to one of the dilemmas posed by Fredric Jameson, A Singular Modernity: An

Essay on the Ontology of the Present (London, 2002).

21. A key concept in Derrida’s later work, the most relevant texts here being Jacques Derrida,

Specters of Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work of Mourning and the New International, trans.

Peggy Kamuf (Chicago, 1994) and the interview following 9/11, “Autoimmunity: Real and

Symbolic Suicides,” trans. Pascale-Anne Brault and Michael Naas, in Philosophy in a Time of


26. Schafer, “Global History and the Present Time,” p. 110.

mediate future. While belief in the persistence through the present of on-

going formations is widespread, the forms in which that might occur seem

less predictable. Obsession with the past and concern about the complex-

ities of the present have tended to thicken our awareness of it at the expense

of expectations about the future. Social geographers such as Jared Diamond

alert us to the prospect that societies based on guns, germs, and steel are on

the verge of immanent collapse if they continue to maintain present modes

of thought and organization.25 As Schafer (rather blandly) puts it, “coming

to terms with the complexity of the present time, which results from the

massive parallelism of cultural contemporaneities, is obviously one of the

great challenges.”26

New World DisarrayIn public discourse, “master narratives” persist and continue to promise

everything from continuing modernizing progress—freedom and democ-

racy are the watchwords of U.S. expansion into the Middle East—to the

return of spiritual leaders under the banner, for example, of jihad. Certainly

the commanding, beguiling power of these simplificationsbuildsfollowings

in larger and larger numbers. But their partiality inevitably means that they

do so in ways that divide each bloc of believers more and more from the

others, with the net effect that they not only cast out “unbelievers” but un-

dermine their own future triumph. In the hearts of their spiritual leaders,

there is a dawning sense that world domination by any one set of views is

impossible in human affairs, that not even their fundamentalism is appli-

cable to all humankind, that the others will, mostly, remain Other. This

sense underlies, and deeply threatens, the homogenizing thrusts of certain

kinds of economic globalization, obliging it to adapt to local circumstances.

It also renders provisional, and often gestural, the appeals to universal rights

that have been for decades an available language for negotiation between

competing interests. New forms of translation need to be found for chan-

nelling the world’s friction.

Differences that are as profound as these do not lie side by side, peace-

fully, nor do they sit up separately in some static array awaiting our in-

spection. They are actively implicated in each other, all over the place, all

the time, just as every one of us lives in them, always. Their interaction is a

major work of the world, of the world on us and us on the world. We are,

all of us, thoroughly embedded inside these processes. Too many of them

are violently bent on the erasure of the other. Some, however, seek recon-

25. See Jared Diamond, Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies (New York, 2003)

and Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed (New York, 2005).


ciliation within a framework of respect for difference. The Australian Con-

temporary Aboriginal Art movement, for example, is significantly driven

by this impulse.27 All of these elements were present in events such as the

9/11 attacks on various U.S. “icons of military and economic power”—an

incomplete event with continuing effects in all spheres of life.28 While the

language of universals remains current, it always arises in concrete partic-

ulars and increasingly in the form of frictional encounters.29

Other recent events indicate profound realignments of modernity’sgreat

formations, as well as the emergence of what may be new ones. Among

these: 9/11 as an attack within an ideological war, as a fissuring of the icon-

omy, and as an occasion to reimpose social constraints within ostensible

democracies; the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq; the uncertain prospect of a

U.S. emperium; the question of European polity, internally and externally;

the implosive fallout of the second world and the reemergence of author-

itarianism within it; in the ex-Soviet peripheries, the suddenness of unReal

states and of the apparent extension of Europe; continuing conflicts in the

Middle East, Central Europe, Africa, and the Pacific; the revival of leftist

governments in South America; the deadly inadequacy of tribalism versus

modernization as models for decolonization; the crisis of post–World War

II international institutions as political and economic mediators (UN, IMF,

World Bank); the accelerating concentration of wealth in a few countries

and within those countries its concentration in the few; ecological time

bombs everywhere and the looming threat of societal collapse; the ubiquity

and diversification of specular culture; the concentration and narrowing of

media versus the spread of the internet; contradictions within and between

regulated and coercive economies and deregulated and criminal ones; the

coexistence of multiple economies and cultures within singular state for-

mations (most prominently, now, China); the proliferation of protest

movements and alternative networks; and the distinctively differentmodels

of appropriate artistic practice, foregrounded in major survey exhibitions,

such as Documenta 11 of 2002 and the fiftieth Venice Biennale in 2003, and

in the subsequent disarray among curators and critics. Classic conceptions

of modernity and modernism, postmodernity and postmodernism—tosay

nothing of the implied bonds between social formation and artistic practice

carried by these terms—cannot be stretched and patched to carry this de-

gree of spinout. And the discursive division of world art into official brands

27. I argue this in “Aboriginality and Postmodernity: Parallel Lives,” the concluding chapter of

Smith, Transformations in Australian Art, 2 vols. (Sydney, 2002), 2:144–67.

28. Osama bin Laden, interview with Hamid Mir, The Observer, 11 Nov. 2001, p. 3.

29. See Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing, Friction: An Ethnography of Global Connection (Princeton,

N.J., 2005).


issued from the power centers and the struggling multiplicity emergent

from everywhere else cannot do so either. The rich complexities of contem-

poraneity have set the world’s agenda since the end of the cold war, creating

a nearly universal condition of permanent-seeming aftermath—Ground

Zero everywhere. Yet sprinkled amidst the recursion to past and fantastical

styles of security we have seen, in the artworks highlighted here, more and

more insights into adaptable modes of active resistance and hopeful per-

sistence.

Just over thirty years ago I described the international art system as still

centered, however precariously and debilitatingly, on the New York art-

world.30 It is inspiring, now, to be able to see that this system, however much

it strives to concentrate its power, has been transformed by a larger network

of widely dispersed and variously connected sources of creative coping. A

less salutary, and even more challenging, aspect of contemporaneity is the

world (dis)order in which this productivity subsists.

30. See Smith, “The Provincialism Problem,” Artforum 13 (Sept. 1974): 54–59.

Documents

Contemporary Terry Smith